


an undeniable distraction

by techburst



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Creeperwolves, M/M, awkward makeouts, sniffing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:50:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/techburst/pseuds/techburst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has never thought about the repercussions of one - grabbing Derek's jacket by mistake and putting it on, and two - accepting a ride from him when he doesn't have the Jeep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ( leather-scented )

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DivineMadness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DivineMadness/gifts).



> this just so happens to be my very first attempt at writing teen wolf fic - so i'm more than willing to accept any kind of crit anyone has to give. mainly, i was just looking for an excuse for derek and stiles to make out. this is what i came up with. 
> 
> thanks to my lovelies, maggie and tai, for putting up with my occasional tease-spamming while writing this. (and for putting up with me in general.) this is for you, ladies.

The funny thing about this is, when he ends up looking back on it later, it's going to sound like some horribly written, B-side teen dramedy. (Yes, he just thought that. That word in particular. And he kind of hates himself for it.) 

Stiles has lost his Jeep privileges. For reasons unknown to the rest of the group – he's keeping it tight-lipped, which just makes Scott think he's managed to _royally piss off his father_ , Allison agrees with Scott, and Derek thinks it has to do with the fact that aforementioned Jeep has been caught at the scene of one too many questionable sites and has been impounded for evidence. 

Again. 

It's been like this for a week. A week of catching rides to school with Scott when he can, riding an old bike he hasn't touched in years when he can't – and Stiles generally being sulky and _even more difficult to deal with than usual_ as the days go on. It's only when he departs from an impromptu group meeting in a huff – and mistakenly grabbing Derek's leather jacket in his haste instead of his own – that Derek himself is beginning to think this has gone on long enough. 

Stiles is walking. Hands shoved into the side pockets of that leather jacket and looking _tiny_ in it, kicking rocks off the side of the road as he goes. Derek follows behind him for a good fifteen minutes, staring at the back of his head and trying not to be _too_ amused when the other finally stops, turns around and sets him with a stare that would have been intimidating if it had been on anyone else. 

Even through glass, Derek can hear him perfectly when he says, "Dude. You could not be any creepier. And I don't think I ever thought I'd say that."

He sighs, pulls up to where the other is standing. Rolls down the window with a quirked eyebrow. "You're wearing my jacket." 

Stiles shrugs and looks every bit like a five-year-old wearing his father's clothes in an attempt to look Big Boy Important. "So?" 

"I want it back."

"Try asking nicely, Rover, and i'll think about it."

Derek feels like resting his head against the steering wheel in the vain hope of staving off the headache he feels building right behind his eyes, but somewhere deep down he knows it won't do him any good. It never does. He stares through the window, one hand on the wheel and the other resting in the space between the driver and passenger seats. "At least let me give you a ride home." 

Stiles take a full three steps back away from the car. "Ohhh no. There is _no way_ I'm getting in a car with you. You might .. molest me or something." 

"Stiles." 

" _What_? You've gotta know by now that you totally give off the creepy-dude-in-the-van-with-candy vibe."

 _Stiles_."

"You can't tell me you don't –"

"Get. In the car." 

The passenger door opens. Shuts. And suddenly there was a hundred and forty-seven pounds of twitchy teenager slumped in the seat next to him. There's a moment of rigid silence, and then: "Hands at ten and two, eyes on the road. I swear to god if you even breathe on me funny I'll scream rape. And I've got a good pair of lungs. _Someone will hear me_." 

That headache is nearly fully-blown now – which is impressive. Under two minutes. That has to be a new record. 

Derek pulls the car forward again, and though he's never been the type to fill the silence with needless chatter – because let's be real, here. _Derek Hale_ saying _anything_ when he didn't need to, or even when he _did_ is ludicrous at best - here, with that one hundred and forty-seven pounds of twitchy teenager in his passenger seat tapping his fingers against his knees and shifting in place every two seconds has him gritting his teeth against the urge to tell him to be still. 

He supposes that wouldn't exactly be the worst thing he could say, but the effort required in working the muscles to open his mouth and have the words come out as anything but an irritated growl is just a little too much for him right now. 

.. Especially once he takes a moment to take a breath – he hadn't realized he'd been holding since Stiles got into the car – and .. oh. 

There's that always-lingering scent of leather. Not just his jacket, but the car itself, and if Derek is completely honest with himself it had been a large contributing factor in his buying it in the first place. (He has his small pleasures, not that he would ever let anyone know as much.) There's his own cologne, which clings more to his clothing than it does his skin, not overpowering but still noticeable. A subtle, mellow scent, like autumn leaves and that ever-present hint of smoke, something that seems to meld with everything else of its own accord. 

There's Stiles – hormones and sweat and cheap detergent, though the first of the two is always more prominent. (He's a teenager, nothing more can be expected of him and Derek knows that.) A tinge of nervousness, the way his heart picks up the second he's in the car and inches away from someone he finds infinitely intimidating, but it isn't that that has him finding it difficult to focus on the stretch of road in front of him. On keeping his fingers curled over the steering wheel so the car doesn't go careening into a ditch. 

Derek's jacket is still engulfing that smaller frame. Leather and cheap detergent and _him_ , and his brows furrow so deeply that his forehead creases. 

"Hey, earth to Cujo. Hell _oooooo_." 

Derek's head snaps up, pupils dilated almost to the point that his eyes are more black than hazel, and he blinks a couple of times. He swallows, realizing now that his mouth has gone completely dry. "What." 

"Light's been green for a full minute. Usually, green means go. Unless – wait, are you color-blind? Is that a werewolf thing? 'Cause I know –" 

"Shut up." 

The silence returns, and Stiles flops back against the passenger seat as the car pulls forward again. Derek almost wants to breathe through his mouth, but he knows it won't do him any good. The scent of the other wrapped up in his jacket is all but ingrained into him – something that he isn't sure he approves of but can't quite help at this point – and he ends up just clenching his jaw and gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles go white. 

The rest of the ride is tense, to say the very least. The air is thick in that tiny space, teenage hormones and nervousness and _Stiles wallowing in his jacket_ , fingers still tapping against his bent knees as he stares out the window, completely oblivious. 

_Why do you exist._

When Derek pulls into the driveway of the Stilinski home, he finds it empty. (It further proves his suspicions of the Jeep being impounded, but doesn't say as much.) The sherriff must be on a late patrol, and the car hasn't even come to a full stop before Stiles is trying to push the door open with a hasty "thanks for driving me home and, y'know, not molesting me –" 

Except there's a firm hand on his arm, fingers curled into leather, and he looks back over his shoulder with eyes so wide he closely resembles a deer caught in the headlights. Like he's afraid he'd spoken too soon, and oh god Derek Hale is going to turn him into some weird sex slave, take him down into some random basement and tie him up and leave him half-naked at all times. 

".. What," he squeaks, voice high-pitched and almost cracking, and Derek just barely manages to keep from laughing. 

"Jacket," he replies simply, and Stiles _visibly deflates_. There's a moment more of silence, and his face melts back into something more closely resembling a neutral expression. 

"What if I wanna keep it? S'pretty nice, has all these pockets .. man, I could stash a _lotta shit_ in here .." 

Derek doesn't say anything at first. But he does lean over, those fingers curled in leather slipping up to grip at the collar of his jacket and begin tugging it off of that smaller frame, and he hesitates. The movement has the air around them circulating, and _more_ of that infuriating scent finds its way up his nose, and the rumble that builds in the back of his throat is nothing more than a vibration. No actual sound. 

He leans in, fits his face into the crook of the other's neck and inhales deeply. It's intoxicating, to say the very least, has him shivering somewhere deep, the base of his spine, and the only thing that could possibly ruin it – 

".. Dude. Are you _sniffing me_?" 

That smaller body is rigid where Stiles sits in the passenger seat, hand still on the doorhandle, fingers curled around it as though it might somehow save him from this, and he's suddenly thinking that he jumped the gun in thinking that he was going to get out of this without being accosted in some way. 

Because if you ask him, being _sniffed by a werewolf_ definitely qualifies as being accosted. Like, majorly. But he still doesn't move, at least not beyond as much as it takes to turn his head to look down at where Derek's nose is buried against his neck. 

Derek's eyes are closed, and he doesn't fully understand why, but he lifts his head just enough to brush his nose against the soft patch of skin just beneath Stiles' ear, and he doesn't miss the distinct shiver it yields him despite the fact that there's an awkward shift of movement in an attempt to cover it up. "Derek –" 

" _You smell like me_ ," is the other's immediate response, the tone of his voice just a shade above a low growl. " _That's_ a werewolf thing." 

"Well thanks for the lesson but – hey!" 

Whatever Stiles had been about to say is abruptly cut off with yet another squeak as hands reach for him, tug him unceremoniously across the distance between their seats and is settled (rather awkwardly) in Derek's lap. Those hands settle on narrow hips, lips press against the hollow of his throat in the semblance of a kiss that ends up being more the scrape of teeth than anything, and Stiles .. well, Stiles doesn't exactly know what to do with himself. 

Except let his mouth take over and start spouting off things that are probably not a good idea to say. _Ever_. Like – 

"Great time to forget my rape whistle. Fuck, I knew today was gonna be the day I needed it. I said to myself, _now Stiles, today's gonna be the day that Derek Hale finally loses his shit completely and decides you're tastier than a Scooby snack._ Why don't I ever listen to myself."

".. Would a dog whistle work on you? I'm gonna buy one, _blow the fuck out of it_ , but you gotta promise to tell me if it makes your ears bleed. Deal?" 

"So are you like .. in heat or something? Do you guys do that? Is that why you're _attacking my neck_ all of a sudden?" 

At that, Derek stops. His hands are still curled around the other's hips, fingers pressing into the crease where hip meets thigh, and Stiles' shirt is pushed up just enough to reveal a strip a warm skin and a dusting of dark hair. Stiles' heart sounds like it's about to beat right out of his chest, his skin is heated to the point that it feels like he might burn up from the inside out, and when the other's eyes meet with his own, he shuts his mouth with an audible click of his teeth. 

Neither of them say anything. Their eyes stayed glued to one another, brown against nearly-black-again-dilated-hazel, and the second Derek begins to move again, it's to curl a hand around the back of Stiles' neck and drag him forward. Again, it isn't a kiss so much as the scrape of teeth against the swell of his bottom lip, and if _smelling_ himself on him was enough to drive him to touch him in the first place, tasting himself on the other's mouth is _more_ than enough to bring a growl from the back of his throat. Low, feral, _demanding_. 

Stiles' fingers curl into the fabric of Derek's shirt, equal parts pushing to keep him from leaning further forward and _trying_ to pull him closer, offering up a murmuring of high-pitched almost-whimpers as that warm tongue strokes against his own. He doesn't quite know what to do with his mouth, how to kiss him back without it seeming sloppy and inexperienced – even if it _is_ , he doesn't want Derek to know that the extent of his kissing experiences fall short of anything spectacular. 

He supposes it's enough to soak it all up, take it in for everything that it is, which is _Derek Hale kissing him like he's just short of devouring him_. 

Which .. in hindsight, is not the best analogy he could have made, but fuck it. 

Derek's breathing is slow, steady where Stiles' is anything but – it's erratic, just like the rapid beat of his heart as he finally slides his hands up, over broad shoulders to bury his fingers in dark hair and _pull_. It seems he's out of things to say for the first time in his life, and Derek has to stop and think _very briefly_ of why he'd never thought to try that as a deterrent before. 

He tucks it away carefully in some hidden place in the back of his mind. For later. For safe-keeping. 

Stiles is leaning back the slightest bit as the other's mouth moves lower again, stubbled jaw scratching against his skin in such a way that it's _more_ than distracting. His fingers are still buried in Derek's hair as he sets his teeth against the beat of his pulse at the side of his neck, and it's so damn _good_ that he doesn't bother trying to keep those slightly-more-than-almost whimpers from falling from the back of his tongue, head tipping back in a silent and unconscious offering of his throat. 

Derek's hands are sliding up, fingers splaying almost possessively against the ridges made by his ribs, nails raking bluntly over the surface of his skin and Stiles can't _help_ the way he arches into the pressure, spine bowing – 

So much to the point that he _yelps_ when the car's horn honks, and it takes him a moment to realize that he'd leaned a little too far back on the steering wheel and .. well .. 

This is awkward. 

Derek stays perfectly still, nose pressed against a collarbone, hands still pressed against warm skin as though he's memorizing every inch he's touched already, committing it to memory with vivid and perfect clarity. He swallows, licking his lips and tasting Stiles on them, and he doesn't think it's going to be something he'll be able to forget anytime soon. 

Stiles clears his throat. "Um –" 

"Your eyes are brown," Derek states, and the other is momentarily so baffled that he doesn't say anything. Because _what the fuck_ , where had that even come from, and – 

"Brown with a bit of gold, actually," he corrects himself. "And your face flushes an absurd shade of pink when you're angry." 

He finally lifts his head to look up, and Stiles just stares at him. "What the _actual fuck_ are you talking about?" 

Derek just gives his own version of a smile, which ends up being barely more than a subtle pull of his mouth to one side. "I'm not color-blind." 

.. Oh. 

Well that. 

_Stupid wolf_. 

He's quiet for another handful of moments, still awkwardly positioned in Derek's lap, acutely aware of how the steering wheel is beginning to dig into the middle of his back and the fact that his jeans are becoming increasingly uncomfortable. He shifts minutely, though it doesn't really do anything other than make him even _more_ aware of the solid body beneath him, and all of a sudden he can't breathe again. 

Stiles thumps a hand against Derek's chest, ducking his head and trying to hide the downright _goofy_ grin on his face, because did he really just make out with Derek Hale in the front seat of his car? 

He just made out with Derek Hale in the front seat of his car. Holy. Fucking. Shit. 

"Creeper," he hears himself mutter, though for the first time since he'd gotten into the car to begin with, there's no real heat to it. At least, not the kind of heat there usually is. He shifts again, like he's about to disentangle himself, but doesn't quite manage it. It's hard – fuck, _difficult_ – to move in such a cramped space, and there isn't much he can do until Derek opens the door and he can all but topple out of it. 

It just has to happen first. 

"M'goin' inside. You .. can come if you want, I guess, but I'm keeping your damn jacket and you have to stop sniffing me." A beat of a pause. "It's weird." 

Derek just laughs and pushes his door open – and Stiles _does_ almost fall out of it, right on his ass until he manages to regain his balance after a second or two of flailing, and he can't help but to watch him as he fumbles for his house keys. As he walks in a decidedly wavering line toward the front door, fumbles again trying to get it open. (And not without a mumbled _goddamn it!_ under his breath that Derek hears perfectly.) 

And then Stiles disappears inside, but not before casting a brief glance over his shoulder back toward the driveway. Like he's checking to see if he's actually being followed. 

Derek steps out of the car, closes the door. 

And follows.


	2. ( and as transparent as glass )

The house is quiet. Empty. Derek finds himself concentrating on the creak of the floorboards beneath his feet as he steps further inside, as he watches Stiles make a bee-line for the kitchen and hears the faucet running. He's either getting himself a drink or splashing cold water on his face – the latter of which could have been done in the bathroom if he'd wanted to be discreet about it – and as he rounds the corner, leans against the doorframe, he finds that that is exactly what he's doing. 

His hands are braced against the edge of the counter, droplets of water sliding along the curve of his cheekbone and catching on the corner of his lip, which he ends up licking at distractedly. His brows are furrowed, and it looks like he's thinking so damn _hard_ that he might end up breaking something if he doesn't stop soon. 

Which means Derek has to speak up about it. With a smirk, even. "You all right?" 

" _Jesus_ would you –" Stiles practically whips around, pointing a finger in the other's direction and pulling such a face that it's difficult to distinguish between exasperation and the flush of his cheeks being anything other than arousal. "Stop being creepy!"

Derek quirks a brow. "You invited me in." 

"I know I did but I didn't think you were gonna .. lurk in the shadows or whatever it is you're doing. What the hell are you doing?" 

"Amusing myself with wondering why you need to splash water on your face." 

There's a pause, a moment of silence in which Stiles just _stands there_ with water still dripping down his face. Over the side of his neck until he reaches to wipe it away. The flush of his cheeks seems to have spread to the very tips of his ears, and as he turns back around to (rather angrily) turn the faucet off Derek doesn't even bother hiding his amusement. 

Stiles pushes past him, shoulder jabbing into his arm as he makes his way upstairs. "I hate you. So much."

That only makes him laugh as he continues to follow him toward his room. "If you did, you wouldn't have said I could come in." 

"That. I." He huffs and pushes his bedroom door open, close to slamming it in the other's face. "You would have just found a way in, anyway. _I know you._ Creep." 

Derek can't do anything but remain amused, and once he's in the other's room, he very quietly closes the door behind him and leans against it. Folds his arms over his chest and smirks as Stiles busies himself with something on his desk. "You can stop calling me that anytime, you know." 

"I _would_ , if you'd stop – why is the door closed?" 

"You don't want it closed?" 

"I didn't say that. I wanna know why _you_ closed it."

Stiles is close to looking panicked again, just as he had when he'd first gotten into Derek's car, licking his lips and all but fidgeting as he waited for an answer. Derek himself only shrugs, pushing a hand back through his hair as he steps away from the door and puts one foot in the other's direction. "You don't want to finish what we started out there?" 

That one step in his direction has Stiles _backing up_ a step, bumping into the corner of his desk as he goes and stumbling. One hand braces against it as the other is held up as though to keep Derek right where he is. "Who said I wanted to _start_ anything in the first place? You're the one that got all handsy."

Derek hums a small, contemplative note in the back of his throat, taking one more step and then another toward him – until there was barely any space left between them at all, and the scent of the younger wrapped up in his jacket is so strong that it has another growl building. Sitting on the back of his tongue as he dips his head low enough to set the younger with a look that clearly says _you wanted it_. 

Stiles' throat works as he tries to swallow, finding it difficult and very nearly choking on his own tongue when Derek curls his hands into the fabric of his jacket again. "Tell me you didn't want it," Derek says in a low rumble, "tell me that, and _mean it_ , and I'll never touch you again." 

The silence that follows is the only thing he'll ever need for conviction. For an answer – though when the words _do_ come, there's no way in the world that they could have sounded convincing. The best way to describe what comes out of Stiles' mouth is at first a stammer, the start of several words that end up an absolute garbled _mess_ that there is no saving them, and he gives up in a huff as he sets Derek with a stare that, again, would have been intimidating if it had come from anyone else. 

On him, it's just short of cute. "You know you're like the most infuriating person on the planet, right? Anybody ever told you that?" 

"No. Just you." 

"Oh, bull _shi_ –" 

He's abruptly cut off by the press of Derek's lips against his, the pressure of his hands again at his hips and if he'd been thinking of finishing that exclamation, he isn't anymore. He's standing perfectly still, as though he's terrified of moving, sighing against the other's mouth in a way that's more than just a little distracting. There's something of a whimper caught on the back of his tongue, and he's just short of _swallowing_ it as Derek's own slides between his teeth, curling around it and drawing it out, and if Stiles had had any semblance of humility about him he would have been embarrassed by the sound of it. 

As it is, he doesn't do a damn thing but reach up and curl his fingers into the fabric of Derek's shirt again. Pull him closer like all he wants to do is crawl inside his skin and stay there. 

He's perfectly fine with this. Even if the edge of his desk is digging awkwardly into his hip – if he's perfectly honest with himself, it's kind of an interesting distraction. One that's keeping him from getting _too_ wrapped up in the fact that Derek Hale is kissing him – _again_ – and for some reason or another, he isn't protesting. Isn't shoving him away and spouting off some amount of bullshit to the effect that he'd never _once_ thought this would actually happen. Or that he would ever want such a thing. Because he would never want some emotionally stunted, stubbled werewolf to shove him against the nearest available surface and do questionable things to him that leave him breathless and shaking and – 

Wait a minute. When did he lose the jacket? When did he lose his shoes, when was he moved away from the desk? _When did he get moved to the bed?_

Stiles blinks, eyes very slowly coming back into focus and he realizes belatedly that he's on his back with his shirt pushed up under his arms, fingers buried in dark hair as Derek scrapes his teeth over the ridge of a rib in such a way that his spine arches completely off the bed and the sound that comes out of his mouth is just short of being embarrassingly high-pitched. "Easy with the teeth, White Fang," he manages to grind out, and Derek growls against his skin. 

"Stiles."

".. Yeah?"

"Shut up." 

He's about to retort, say something like _make me_ but he doesn't get the chance. Because it's like Derek can read his mind, know _exactly_ what he's going to say before he even opens his mouth to do it. Of course, that means he's sliding lower, lips skimming the surface of his skin, the hollow of his stomach until he diverts to one side to slide his tongue over the rise of a hipbone, and Stiles can't even _think_ of what words are, much less remember how to use them. 

His mouth is dry. _That_ much he can register as he lifts his head and glances down the length of his body, and god _damn_ if the sight of Derek Hale between his thighs isn't one of the most beautiful things he's ever seen in his life. Like something that belongs in one of those fancy photography books of tasteful nudes, except this is more like something he's liable to keep in the very bottom of the shoebox he hides in his closet that harbors all of his jerk-off material. Because _fuck_ if anyone else should be allowed to see this. 

Did he just think that? Why did he just think that? 

.. Never mind. Doesn't matter. Because the button on his jeans is being flipped open, the zipper pulled down in a low _hiss_ of sound and he can't be bothered to care why his mind is suddenly trying to rationalize the fact that he can't stomach the thought of anyone else being able to have this. 

(It's something he's going to have to think about later, he knows. Because this sort of thing doesn't just go away if you don't want to think about it. And he gets the feeling that it's going to be the kind of thing that eats away at him, gnaws at the base of his spine with sharp little teeth until he pays it the attention it deserves. 

Goddamn it, Derek. _Why do you exist._ ) 

Stiles wants to think he's capable of coherent thought. That's there is more to this than just the fact he's been all but rendered _breathless_ by a few simple, carefully-placed touches – of hands, lips, teeth – but the _fact_ remains that he can no more maintain a cohesive strain of thought for longer than a few milliseconds than he can keep from pushing up into the pressure of fingers curled around the rise of his hipbones. 

From _whining_ as that teasing mouth presses to the patch of skin just beneath his navel, the barest hint of teeth skimming over the surface as a chuckle slips up from the back of Derek's throat, and Stiles tries his best to glare down at him despite knowing full well that he is going to fail. Miserably. Horribly and embarrassingly and _oh god it doesn't matter because there is a hand on his cock that isn't his own for the first time in his life._

There's still a layer of fabric in the way, his boxers are still there – _why are his boxers still there?_ – but it really doesn't make a difference, because it feels _good_. Great. Fantastic. _Glorious_. Except .. wait no that didn't last anywhere _near_ long enough – 

Stiles whines again, picking his head up and forcing his eyes open – when did they even close in the first place? – trying in vain to remedy the dryness of his lips by licking them, tongue flicking almost nervously over warm skin as he makes an attempt to focus. His cheeks are flushed, brown eyes wide and dilated and _fixated_ on the fact that he's watching his jeans sliding down the expanse of his thighs. Boxers and all being removed from his body by large, rough hands that are going a little too slowly for his liking. 

This is really happening, isn't it? This is a thing. That is happening. Derek Hale is in his room and has managed to get him completely and utterly naked, shaking from the inside out despite his every attempt to keep himself from being so _goddamned transparent_. 

He makes some vague sort of noise, one that's meant to be questioning – _why do you still have everything on why aren't you getting naked too oh god you're going to be naked in my room how the fuck did this even happen_ – and it comes out garbled, strained and hoarse, and he tries to glare when he hears that soft laugh in response. 

"Hate you .. hate you _so much right now_." 

Derek purrs against the inside of his thigh, stubbled jaw scratching over sensitive skin as he presses hot, sharp kisses in a slow, maddening line up toward his hip. He's taking his time – there's absolutely no mistaking that – and it just makes the way his hands flatten against his thighs to push them a bit wider apart moderately more infuriating. 

He stops. He stops and Stiles wants to tear into him just to see if it would make him move again. Make him touch him again, because the fact that his mouth is _so fucking close_ to the hard length of his cock resting against the hollow of his stomach is enough to make him outright _squirm_. 

"M'gonna –" Stiles starts, voice rasping and just short of pleading as his hips try to push upward and are ultimately halted in any further movement by the press of a single hand. Derek is _grinning_ at him, nothing but teeth, and a broken-off moan catches on the back of his tongue that tapers off into a noise of pure _want_. 

"Fuckin' kill you in your sleep, asshole – _fuck_ –" 

His fingers curl in on themselves, tangled in the unmade sheets beneath him as he continues to strain to push upward; that grinning mouth is now sliding down the length of him, tongue pressed flat against the underside and _jesus fucking christ_ it's taking everything in him to not come on the spot. Right there, gasping and aching and _needing_ everything Derek deigns to give him just to keep the heat sparking through his veins. 

_God. Oh god oh god oh god_ – 

He almost loses it. Can feel the familiar tingle start at the base of his spine and slither all through him as the tip fo Derek's tongue presses against the sensitive ridge just beneath the head of his cock, making his hips buck and the whole of his body _writhe_ with it – 

And then that mouth is gone. 

Stiles opens his own in an attempt to protest, to say _something_ but .. oh. Derek is pulling himself up and covering his body with his own, heat practically rolling off of him as he presses hard between his thighs, the roughness of denim against hyper-sensitive skin more than enough to rip any thought of protest from him entirely. 

He can't help the way his legs wind around the other's waist, the way he shudders at the growl it earns him, pressed against the line of his mouth as his hands tangle in dark hair and very blunt, human nails scrape over the back of his neck. He feels like he's going out of his mind, like his skin is going to melt right off his bones and there will be absolutely nothing left of him. 

Not that he can say he particularly cares about that right this very second. Not when there's the hiss of a second zipper being pulled down, so slowly that it seems to drown out any other semblance of sound, and Stiles doesn't think he's ever heard anything so _filthy_ in his entire life. 

His brain short-circuits when he feels the hot, heavy length of Derek's cock brush against his hip. Checks out, doesn't stay for the complimentary breakfast – just sees its way out and doesn't give a _fuck_ that it leaves Stiles at a complete and utter loss for how to function, how to respond save for the involuntary reaction of writhing against him. He tries to breathe, isn't surprised when he can only manage a few short, stunted attempts, and instead focuses the whole of his attention on the mouth against his own. Biting at him, sliding his tongue past kiss-bruised lips and stroking against his own, and when had the taste of the other gotten to be something that he needed so much? 

Derek is still fully clothed, something that makes the fact that he's now sliding a hand between their bodies to curl around _both of them_ simultaneously so much more intimate. So much closer to something that he should have only been able to fantasize about while he's imagining his hand isn't his own, and the second those hips push down against his, all but rut against him in a slow, deliciously obscene movement, he's _gone_. 

He's sixteen years old and up until this very moment it's been a one-man show – what else can be expected of him? 

Stiles comes with a muffled groan, lost as it ends up being against Derek's mouth as he all but swallows it – seeks to drag more out of him as his tongue curls behind his teeth, another growl stuck somewhere in the middle of his chest and emerging as nothing but raw sensation. A vibration that he can feel all the way down to his bones. 

It makes him whine as he rides out the residual shocks of his orgasm when Derek keeps moving. Keeps grinding against him, the slide of his cock slick against his stomach, aided by the mess that still feels hot against over-warm skin. He moves like his body is made up of nothing but water, fluidity and grace that doesn't belong on a body that large – and Stiles pulls back just slightly, to watch him. To take everything in just in case he never gets a chance to have this again. 

The way Derek grits his teeth, muscles tightening at the side of his neck and all along the line of his jaw as he begins to shake – whether with the effort of staving off his own release or from the knowledge that it's about to crash down around him – he doesn't know which it is, and he doesn't know _why_ , but Stiles is curling his fingers against the curve of those powerful shoulders. Leaning in to scrape his teeth over those taut muscles at the side of his neck, just enough to count. 

Derek comes with a shudder, a groan, a growl – forehead resting against the rise of a collarbone, and for once, _he's_ the one trying to catch his breath and failing. 

The silence is filled with the thud of beating hearts trying to slow down again, mingled breaths still coming just a bit too ragged in what little space remains between them. It isn't much, and Stiles thinks .. it's nice, in a way. An intimate, personal, I-totally-just-had-sex-with-a-werewolf way. 

He sighs, hums. Pleased. "Still keepin' the jacket," he hears himself murmur against the patch of skin just beneath the other's left ear. 

Derek bites down _hard_ on his collarbone, and the resounding yelp that comes out of his mouth is something that he couldn't have hidden even if he'd bothered trying. 

Not that he would have.

"Okay. _Okay_. Fuck it. Take the damn thing back. It smells like dog, anyway." 

There's a soft chuckle, and the faintest sweep of a warm tongue against that previously-abused stretch of skin. "If I said you could keep it under the stipulations that I reserve the right to borrow it whenever I wanted to, would that be good enough?"

A beat of silence. "Mm .. maybe. I'll think about it." 

_Bite_. 

" _Okay!_ Y'know, it's funny you say that, 'cause I was totally gonna say you could still borrow it whenever you wanted. Way to hive-mind, man." 

"Stiles." 

"Huh." 

"Shut up."

".. Yeah. Okay. Whatever. I just got laid. You can be as rude as you want. There is no possible way you could ruin it by being yourself."

Derek lifts his head _just_ to quirk an eyebrow at him. Stiles just _grins_. 

And Derek kisses him until he stops.


End file.
